


Hallowed Remains

by OpalEmpress



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: (eventually they fall in love because canon is my bitch but none of that's here), Early Days Deacon & SoSu, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Sanctuary Hills (Fallout 4)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:01:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28836735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpalEmpress/pseuds/OpalEmpress
Summary: There's an empty house in the settlement of Sanctuary. People have left it untouched, and Deacon wants to know why.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Hallowed Remains

_Sacred_.

That’s a word Deacon rarely has cause to use, in the hollow shell of what was once a metropolis. Not much is, not to anyone.

He’s used it once before, when they first set up below Old North Church. He remembers the hush over his soul when he first stepped across the threshold, the way Desdemona had closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, the quiet sigh that had left Carrington, for once of relief, not annoyance.

It makes sense there, but much less so here, at the edge of the Commonwealth, in the remains of a suburb with a name too on the nose to be anything but legitimate. It’s an absurdly ordinary place now, through the hard work of its inhabitants— people farm, sell wares, tend to small wounds sustained through labor as opposed to gunfights.

Sanctuary is up-and-coming, to be sure, but with emphasis on the up. The houses that still stood were verging on truly repaired, with even some plants growing that didn’t relate specifically to food. Lights shone out of buildings at night, music played from radios, the community occasionally singing along, some people even had time for hobbies again. It makes Deacon smile, though he’s quick to hide it—from himself and anyone who might be watching.

But there was one house on the block that was dark and untouched, silent amid the singing, and given a wide berth, even by those on guard duty. He had noticed it when the Professor and he had made their way up here last time, but he hadn’t had the chance to snoop through it properly. Deacon expected the sight of it to raise the hairs on the back of his neck— the way the houses of Covenant did—but it didn’t, and that made him more paranoid that it was hiding something. It would be such a horror movie cliché—but hell, this was the apocalypse, and he had seen stranger things.

So, this time, while she was helping Sturges with repairs to one of the water purifiers, he had drifted back up the path, browsing wares, making jokes, accepting an offered piece of mutfruit from someone, keeping one eye on the dark house the whole time. And eventually slipping into the doorway next to the rusted out car, unnoticed by anyone.

And that feeling hit him again—the feeling that he stood on sacred ground, that he has crossed some invisible line that divides this place from the rest of the Commonwealth. That strange, alien weight and stillness that brings the comfort and responsibility in equal part.

Deacon takes a few steps in, despite the niggling feeling at the back of his mind that he should turn back, that he is eavesdropping in a confessional booth. But that feeling has never stopped him before. He crouches down, passes behind the island counter, eyes flicking about the space behind his sunglasses. It’s not just the building that has been left alone—there is some choice salvage that still lies here, untouched, stuffed that traders would pay a premium for. He makes his way into the short hallway, looking for a tile out of place, a trapdoor to a basement, a footprint in the dust. Something pointing to knowledge he needed, that would be useful to the Railroad, that the Institute had overlooked. Something that would justify his intrusion.

Instead, he finds a cradle.

The paint is chipped and worn, but in places, it’s still bright blue, the kind of blue that even the sky has trouble with. A small spaceship hangs haphazardly from the remains of a mobile above the tiny rotting mattress that is covered in a blanket of leaves that have blown in from the trees outside.

He swallows, hesitating, even as his instincts say he should leave, that this place is not for him and never was. It feels as though he should leave something, an offering, a promise. He can’t explain it, knows it’s ridiculous—but it feels wrong to just turn back.

“Deacon,” her voice makes him jump, and the noise of the community outside rushes back into his senses, the clamor of life outside of this space. He hadn’t noticed it fade.

The Professor doesn’t sound angry, or sad, or even wistful, and his name isn’t a question of his intent as much as it is a statement that she knows why he stands here, in the bones of her life, this temple to her loss, and an acknowledgement that she has permitted his examination of it. There’s no surprise that he is here, no indignation that he has violated the unspoken covenant of this place.

He almost smiles. She’s getting to know him too well.

“Find anything interesting?” her voice is the dangerous kind of mild, the kind that lulls you into a second bite before kicking your teeth in.

“Sorry, boss,” he says, stepping back, “Thought I saw someone in here.”

A bitter, twisted smile teases the edges of her lips, “Of course, Deacon. Sure.”

He drops his head, “I should’ve put the pieces together faster. Didn’t mean to… intrude, I guess.”

The Professor looks past him, and for a brief second, he sees a torrent of emotions flash across her face—grief, rage, devotion, agony, loneliness—but then the mask of determination and humor is back in place as she meets his eyes as well as she can through his sunglasses.

“It’s just a house, Deacon.”

He nods, and follows her when she turns and heads out. He, of all people, knows a lie when he hears one.


End file.
